pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

Enjolras says nothing, but it's not difficult for Combeferre to know what he's thinking. Enjolras is quiet but transparent, and in any case, Combeferre is thinking the same thing.

"I think it was a real Paris, not a dream," he says. "As I understand it, the Labyrinth takes us to places that exist, albeit in other worlds, other universes. That Paris is as true as ours." Combeferre has no words for the joy and the pain of that--something so wondrous, so real, and so unattainable for them. But still real, still true.

The cruelty of all the ways in which their poor worlds fell short remains, a deep and constant pain.

But this was real. A real Paris, an entire Earth, where this came to pass; where a Jean-Sébastien Enjolras, a Jean-Luc Combeferre, a Bahorel and a Joly and a Feuilly and a Jean Prouvaire and all the rest of them lived to see the Republic dawn. They couldn't bring it about, not in Enjolras's world and not in Combeferre's, no matter how much he and Bossuet strove to change their little corner of history. But in some world, the citizens of France know that bright triumph and concord as simple fact, achieved, unassailable.

A few tears have slid down his cheeks, twin glittering trails, cool against the warmth of the morning sunlight. His shoulders have sagged, very slightly, in a rare moment of rest.

"Good," is all he says, softly. His heart is full.

"Good."

Combeferre squeezes Enjolras's hand again. There's nothing to be said. It hurts to see Enjolras weep, even from joy, but--there's nothing to be said. Nothing Enjolras hasn't already said. It is good. Not as good as they had wanted, but good.

Some moments pass. One minute, or less, or more; it doesn't really matter.

Enjolras thinks, eventually, to bend long enough to set his mug of coffee on the ground. He'll retrieve it later.

"How much of it did you see? Was it only that corner?"

"Mostly that, yes," says Combeferre, "that corner, and some of the area around it, and the inside of the Corinthe, of course." He pauses. "It had pictures of the wall, of certain regular patrons of note. Including our friends. Matelote had stories to tell us, about our 'uncles', and their friends--she thought we were our own nephews."

He wonders, suddenly, what it would have been like to encounter his older self in this world. "We had no chance to see more," he says. "We were whisked back to Milliways shortly after arriving at the Vivent les peuples wall."

Enjolras is wondering what it would have been like to encounter that world's Combeferre, or Feuilly, or Joly, or any of the others. He hasn't thought yet of the strangeness of encountering himself.

"Still."

Still, what a miraculous gift.

Everything else he could say feels like an empty pleasantry, understated to pointlessness: Still, you saw it, or it's good she was there to tell you of it, or something else to wrap needless words around the heart of this bittersweet joy that overwhelms him. He presses Combeferre's hand once more, trusting -- knowing -- that Combeferre will know what's in his heart. All of them would share the same thoughts in the face of this.

Combeferre twines his fingers with Enjolras's, their joined hands resting on Enjolras's shoulder. He remembers the picture of Enjolras on that other Corinthe's wall. Enjolras was smiling, and had faint lines extending from his nostrils to the corners of his lips, and faint furrows in his brow.

Combeferre might have met that Enjolras, too, an Enjolras who had been a public servant for decades, whose love for France had been allowed to burn steadily for years. He looks down, unable to stop his eyes going blurry.

"Yes." Still, he had the privilege of knowing this other Enjolras existed. Still, he knew it was all real.

There's no need, really, to discuss the matter further, unless Combeferre has more details worth sharing; and there's time enough for that. Here, in this moment of silent fraternity, in the sun-soaked Milliways morning, there's space to think of a happier France, of friends alive and dreams realized, a citizenry freed.

Once, Enjolras quietly hated Milliways. No longer. Now he has friends here; now, there are gifts like this, a visit to another Paris, and friends to share that joy with beyond death.

"Have you told the others?"

Combeferre blinks again, but this time it's because the sunlight has shifted and is now reflecting painfully off of the windows and Enjolras's hair.

"No, I didn't have the chance. Last night--the Bar was busy, and we all had so much to discuss." He smiles. "I can't wait to tell them."

Enjolras returns the smile.

"Let's."

He rises.

(Sooner or later he'll remember his abandoned mug of coffee, but probably not until it's stone cold.)

Combeferre rises, too. He's finished his coffee, so nothing spills when he's careless with the cup.

He pulls a waistcoat at random from the closet. A somber gray, like every other one he has. He shrugs it on. "Feuilly might be awake." Unlike some of their other friends, Combeferre does not need to add.

"Yes. In any case, he wouldn't mind being woken for such news."

Enjolras had chosen black trousers when he rose, in the unthinking habit of months -- perhaps longer, in the indefinable way of time's passage at Milliways. It's hard to say, here where a week can pass in a night and the calendar seems to advance by steps and skips. But he pauses, now, and studies the contents of the drawer, and reaches instead for a pair of pale gray trousers.

He's never worn these. Nor the blue waistcoat and coat that follow after.

But Prouvaire is here now, the last of their number. Not the last of the Amis de l'ABC, nor the last man Enjolras called friend, but now the inner circle of their dearest friends is complete, all eight lieutenants and Grantaire; all dead on the rue de la Chanvrerie, and all here. It seems a worthy enough day to choose.

Combeferre hadn't worn mourning at Milliways. When he arrived, most of his dearest friends were already here--all except Feuilly and Prouvaire, in fact. He knew they were dead, but to him they were simply--elsewhere, and he had reason to hope they would appear.

But he couldn't fail to notice Enjolras's regular mourning attire. It was a daily tribute to their friends, and a moving expression of Enjolras's grief for them. To see Enjolras reach for light, bright colors--

Combeferre smiles, pulling on his coat, and says nothing. They'd never discussed Enjolras's mourning--they'd never needed to--and there's no need to discuss the end of it now. Enjolras's frame of mind is plain to see. Combeferre, still smiling, suspects his own is equally so.